


this train is bound for glory

by skanktuary



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Age Difference, Dirty Talk, F/M, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Multi, Naked Male Clothed Female, Porn IS the plot, Size Difference, True Love, character study via sex, filth but make it heartwarming, hoe shit, hoein ain't easy but Zevran sure is, no beta we die of the taint, romantic friendfucking, shades of polyamory, slut empowering?, the opposite of slut shaming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-22
Updated: 2020-07-22
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:34:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25433941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skanktuary/pseuds/skanktuary
Summary: nobody’s written the one where Zevran goes from tent to tent smashing it out with most of the companions because he’s a helper, so i did what needed doingorthe one where Zevran gets a very slow train run on him.
Relationships: Alistair/Zevran Arainai, Zevran Arainai/Female Warden, Zevran Arainai/Leliana, Zevran Arainai/Morrigan, Zevran Arainai/Sten, Zevran Arainai/Wynne
Comments: 11
Kudos: 85





	this train is bound for glory

**Author's Note:**

> yet again i find myself coming out of retirement because nobody is paying proper reverence to the slut of the party, yet again i find myself writing heartwarming filth. we all have our brands i guess.
> 
> i only ever come out of my cave to write fic when i show up late expecting a cornucopia of smut only to find that nobody has had the decency to preemptively write me the exact thing i want to read, and i realize that it’s my turn to make a sacrifice to the internet gods and actually contribute by writing the porn i wish to see in the world. anyway here’s the penance I must pay for talking shit about y’all not living up to my personal dirt dreams. zevran is a ho and i have honored him as such. enjoy.

* * *

The Warden is first, of course. First in his heart, eventually, but before that she’s the first one he offers himself to. He owes her his life, so perhaps he thinks it’s only proper she gets right of refusal before anyone else. She doesn’t refuse, though, because she was smart enough to take what good life gave her even before the world came crashing down.

She enjoys every moment with Zevran, thinks he’s special and interesting, but while she’s definitely the type to pick up every piece of questionable treasure they come across, she’s also not one to hoard it - she dispenses it as she sees fit among her companions. Judging by their reactions, she’s found she’s particularly skilled at seeing whose wants and needs certain items can see to best. 

Her dear Alistair has been looking like _he_ could use a good seeing to for some time now. It has crossed her mind more than once, how easy it would be to draw him into her tent and her body, give him what she knows he wants. What she wants, too. But while Alistair is ripe for the taking, he’s also a fruit it would be very easy to bruise. She believes that her influence and their connection would make it very complicated indeed, make Alistair feel that there are other things he might want as well. 

She’s not the only one he looks at, though, and that… that is much, much simpler.

They never take watch together, it being more practical to space out their darkspawn-sensing abilities, but she finds herself awake early. The sun hasn’t yet risen, marking the end of the last watch, and she comes to sit with him by the dying embers of the fire, still hot enough to brew the slightly-stale tea she’s been rationing.

They drink their tea without speaking, but the thought has been running through her mind long enough that she has to let it out, so she does. There’s little time to waste when the world is ending and every person they need to help stop it requires them to undergo an ordeal of a quest (or several) before they are free to live up to their word.

“He’s not just teasing, you know,” she says. If anyone in the world both needs and deserves Zevran’s attentions, it’s her poor pent-up fellow Warden. She’s an altruist, really. “If you so much as nodded your head in the direction of your tent, he’d follow you there and do anything you asked him to.” 

With anyone else she would have added the caveat ‘just about’, but she has serious doubts that even Alistair’s darkest fantasies are outside the realm of what Zevran would consider standard operating procedure. Sure, he probably wants to choke Zevran on his cock, but that’s not only well within the realm of normal, it’s practically an appropriate response to Zevran as a person.

“Are you suggesting... what!” It’s hard to blame Zevran for his innuendos and constant flirtation when Alistair blushes so pretty. She’s starting to see the reasoning behind Zevran’s non sequitur ambushes. “Aren’t you and he... ” he makes a vague gesture instead of finishing the sentence. 

She hums, sipping her tea delicately. “Zevran’s here because he wants to be. As much as he likes to play up the blood debt of it all, he doesn’t belong to me. It’s just a very convenient excuse for him to continue to do exactly what he wants. If he felt like fucking off to Rivain and being rid of us all, he could at any moment. I don’t even think he’d need to drug us to sneak off and never be heard from again, though that’s also an option.”

Alistair continues to look alarmed. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“He’s had the idea that his worth is his usefulness trained into him. As have you, I might add. For you it’s a matter of duty, for him it’s pride. He talks a big game, but that’s where his self-esteem really comes from - not from being beautiful, but from being beautiful and useful. He’s enjoying the opportunity to use his skills to help us end this Blight, and he would enjoy using his _other_ skills to help you blow off steam.”

“Simple as that,” he says into his mug, with an edge of sarcasm. 

“Simple as that,” she replies, easy. 

He’s quiet for a long moment. The fire crackles and he stares into it for some time before turning back to her again. “Do you think I should?”

She knows how convincing Alistair finds her, as do most people, so she chooses her words carefully. “If we make it out of this, you’re gonna be king, with all your life laid out before you. If we don’t, you’ll be dead. We all will. It’s perfectly fine for some things to be fantasies, things we only ever think about but never actually want to do. But if having sex with Zevran is something you actually want to do? Then yes, I do think you should. It’s pointless to deny yourself a harmless and fulfilling diversion, especially now.”

“I’d probably just embarrass myself,” he says, grimacing. Notably, Alistair has not once said he doesn’t want to, or denied that he is attracted to Zevran. 

She simply pours more watery tea into their mugs. “I know this might sound like heathen talk to a Chantry boy like you, but there’s nothing more sacred than sex to Zevran. It wouldn’t be conducive to a good time if he made you feel awkward. I think this is as low-pressure a sexual experience as you could ask for.”

He runs his hand through his hair, laughing uneasily. “I can’t believe you’re trying to, to send your boyfriend to… tend to me.”

She shrugs. “I’m not sending him anywhere.” (Truthfully, she thinks that Zevran would probably find it a particular pleasure if she _did_ send him, if she told him to go to Alistair and not come back until she could taste him in Zevran’s mouth… but that’s a little more than he needs to hear right now.) “I’m merely telling you that it would be easy, and it would be fun, and Zevran would be delighted to have such an invitation from you. He‘ll flutter back to me when he likes, if he likes.”

“But you care for him,” Alistair prods. “I know you do.”

“I do, I care for him a great deal, and more than that: I like him. Part of what he’s hiding under all that swagger is a genuine sweetness he had to learn to stomp out because being perceived as weak was literally life-threatening. The only thing I would ever really want to change about him is that I want him to feel safe enough to let a little sweetness out.” She stretches out her legs, getting her feet a little closer to what’s left of the fire. “In a way, I think being ostentatious about his omnivorous sexual interests is one of the ways he probably found to do just that. A socially acceptable way to express his delight in the world, in trying and tasting new things. It’s less socially acceptable here, of course, but I think that’s part of his charm too.”

He mulls this over for a while, stroking over his chin thoughtfully as though hair might ever grow there. “I’ll grant there’s something more behind him. But you don’t feel... possessive?”

She laughs, lightly. “You can’t possess lightning, or trap it. You can’t contain a storm. You can admire the flash or fear it, you can be quenched by the rains or be drowned by them.”

(Zevran, awake in his tent, feels something he’s never felt before. To have his motivations laid out like a shopping list, to be so known despite his remaining secrets and still spoken of with admiration makes him feel treasured, and it’s terribly romantic to hear her describe him this way. There’s something between that and her denial of owning him that makes him feel all the more possessed.)

“Don’t do anything you don’t want to do,” she advises. “But if you never do anything you’re uncomfortable with, you might miss out on some exciting experiences. That’s how I see it, anyway.”

Alistair chews on this conversation for a few days. He hadn’t really let himself consider the fact that he was attracted to Zevran, before. But he never denied it. The whole time his dearest friend suggested he sample her lover like a cheese platter, he never said, _no, you misunderstand, I don’t want him_. And so, he considers.

When he looks at Zevran now, he allows himself to see the things that he usually steers himself away from. The loveliness of his profile, the poutiness of his lips, the way those tattoos on his face crinkle when he smiles. The fact that Alastair knows more of them snake down the rest of his body, has averted his eyes from a bathing Zevran in the past to keep from giving his brain forbidden knowledge that it wouldn’t be able to help revisiting. He may have the remnants of a tan from before he left his sunny home, but his skin is beautiful brown as far down as Alistair has seen, unaffected by the sun, or rather the lack thereof traveling through Ferelden in its most dismal months. He wonders if the tattoos feel different from the rest of his skin, rougher or raised, or if they simply disappear in the dark, hidden among the softness of his flesh. 

And he thinks, fine. Let’s find out. 

It’s not as easy as all that, of course. He scours his brain over and over, trying to think of the best way to broach the topic. He considers and discards countless options, each seemingly worse than the last, before he gives up. 

_If you so much as nodded your head in the direction of your tent_ , he hears his friend say encouragingly in his mind. It’s no worse than any of the truly terrible lines he’s considered. So he tries it. 

And by Andraste’s most blessed and holy undergarments… it fucking works. 

Zevran is respectfully circumspect. He has very few illusions that anyone who isn’t a particularly deep sleeper won’t notice what happens tonight; though Alistair surely had to learn to pleasure himself quietly in his years in the Chantry, Zevran is confident he’ll have him moaning carelessly soon enough. But Alistair is easily embarrassed, so he sneaks into his tent after Morrigan has settled in for first watch and everyone else is tending to the business of winding down for sleep, when there's still enough ambient noise to keep low voices relatively private. 

“Oh,” Alistair says when Zevran appears as though from nowhere. “I thought… maybe you decided not to come.”

Zevran rather heroically doesn’t make any jokes about how he’s definitely planning on coming tonight, and settles himself down next to Alistair on the bedroll. “And I thought you would appreciate a little discretion.” 

He seems almost surprised by this level of care, which means the poor boy either hadn’t thought out the myriad ways Zevran could have followed him here, or that he was so addled with desire that he hadn’t cared. Either option is quite sweet as far as Zevran is concerned. “Thank you,” Alistair says.

“Not at all. It is I who should be thanking you. Unless I have misinterpreted, and you have invited me here to have a chat? Which, I will add, I am perfectly happy to do.”

“I’d like to have more than a chat with you, Zevran,” Alistair says, voice a little deeper than usual, desire in his eyes. It is a sight to behold and Zevran is immensely grateful to receive it. 

“You are going to be _such_ a threat when you become more comfortable using these deadly charms you have at your disposal, my friend,” he admires.

Often has Zevran laid compliments much more effusive than this at Alistair’s feet and never received the reaction he gets now, a slow dawning smile, as though he’s actually flattered. “Is that so? And you’re going to help me achieve that comfort out of your heart’s kindness?” he teases.

Zevran merely shrugs. “You are the dearest friend of my dearest friend, and a handsome and honorable man. It is a great privilege to have you call upon me in this manner.”

Alistair snorts. 

“It’s true,” Zevran insists. “And if those reasons were not compelling enough, you’ll also be the king of my adopted homeland soon. Surely it is my patriotic duty to aid you in this way, and in my best interests to make myself useful to you.”

“Then be useful,” Alistair says, just a hint of haughtiness, as though he’s trying it out. Zevran is dearly charmed by it.

“Shall there be kissing, then, or would you like me to make use of my mouth in a different way?”

“Let’s, uh.” Alistair takes a slow breath. “Let’s start this way. Yes, I would like to kiss you.”

He would have been happy to get Alistair off quick and be gently dismissed, because Zevran always takes what he can get, but he’s _much_ happier this way, having the chance to take his time. He’d be perfectly content to spend the entire night at this task. If his Warden has need of a rogue and warrior in the morning she’ll simply have to turn her gaze elsewhere. He would be remiss not to do his proper best for dear Alistair. 

Alistair kisses him sweetly, unpracticed but not clumsy. He puts his whole body into it, the same way he does everything else, from fighting to merely talking. It’s the work of minutes for him to find his footing enough to get a little more confident, to use that magnificent strength to pull Zevran into his lap as though he weighs no more than a feather. The evening ahead shows nothing but promise. 

Before the Wardens, before the Blight, if Alistair had considered what he thought his first time would be like, he would’ve painted a picture: him a Templar in shiny armor, maybe a nice girl from the countryside. It would be a little awkward, but sweet. Maybe they would even be in love. 

Alistair is neither a Templar nor in love, and Zevran is not a round-cheeked country girl. He’s a foreigner and an assassin and a man. Like every other aspect of his life, Alistair truly could not have anticipated this turn of events. He certainly does feel nice, though, biting playfully at Alistair’s lips and breathing hot into his mouth. The grinding in his lap is even nicer. 

Later, when Alistair is trying to determine at which point he lost his mind, he would pinpoint it about here, when Zevran pulls away and asks the question that hindsight will later point to as the most probable cause of his downfall, “May I taste your cock now, my king?”

Alistair doesn’t really even want to be king. He’ll do his duty, as he always has, though he isn’t exactly gunning for the position. But there’s something inside of him, maybe the part that went neglected and unwelcome and disrespected for so long, that takes a perverse delight in Zevran’s words. Or perhaps the king aspect is secondary and he is only so affected because nobody has ever suggested anything so abjectly lewd to him. He doesn’t know, because all he can do is say, “Yes, Zev, _please_.”

He has never in his life felt anything more beautiful than how wet and warm Zevran’s mouth is, until Zevran sucks and the mental note Alistair had pinned up to remind him to keep quiet flutters into the dirt. (This moment is also a heavy contender in the When Exactly Did I Lose All Reason ruminations Alistair will later go on.) He moans, unable to control it.

It gets blurry after that because he comes, of course he does, he tries to hold back for as long as he can but nobody’s ever touched him and it feels so fucking good. Zevran’s hand is around the base of his cock and his lips and tongue are performing obscenities and he’s moving his head and humming happily and then Alistair’s losing it and Zevran doesn’t stop, only swallows with a smile in his eyes. Swallows! 

And even so, Zevran doesn’t seem to think this means this evening is over. “That was lovely,” he says, heartfelt. “Again?”

Zevran looks so pleased, and it’s not the smug kind of pleased he looks when he’s gotten one over on someone, or he makes a dirty joke that Alistair doesn’t even realize is a dirty joke. Not self-satisfied, just happy. Alistair doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do with that. What he does do is pull Zevran in to kiss him again. This seems to please Zevran even _more_ , and maybe turn him on more too if the way he moans into it is any indication.

“I did not think that you would kiss a mouth you just spent yourself into,” he says admiringly when Alistair releases him for air. “I believe you will prove to be dirtier than anyone would have expected.”

And, Maker, of course she had been right. She always is. Zevran isn’t just making this easy, he’s making it _thrilling_. Alistair’s main source of nerves about this whole affair was his consternation about being embarrassed, but Zevran doesn’t treat him like a fumbling virgin, rather, a promising initiate. He doesn’t make Alistair feel goofy; he makes him feel… sexy. 

He _looks_ at him like he’s sexy, and it’s truly really late for Alistair to realize that while Zevran has always been teasing, he’s never been joking when he talks about how attractive he thinks Alistair is. Thus encouraged, Alistair begins to take off his clothes, watching Zevran’s eyes tracing every inch of skin he bares. It’s hard to be nervous when Zevran’s face gives him all of the reassurance he needs; that he’s welcome, wanted, desired. Hungered for.

“Will you take your clothes off?” he asks.

“I would be happy to. But I wonder if you would like to do it for me?” Zevran suggests. It hadn’t occurred to him, but Alistair very much would. He peels Zevran’s clothes away, tracing over tattoos as they are revealed. Zevran shivers under the light touch of his fingers, and he’s overcome by the need to kiss him some more. It feels so natural and right to pull Zevran to him again, to lay back in his bedroll with Zevran beautifully bare atop him. 

Alistair goes a little mad, maybe, at the first press of warm, naked skin against his own. It’s a unique, unheard of pleasure, heady in a way he wasn’t prepared for. Zevran’s cock is as pretty as the rest of him, and he’s hard. For Alistair. _About_ Alistair. It’s kind of encouraging, and flattering. There’s nothing ambiguous about it, nor about taking it in his hand and giving it a friendly squeeze, or the way Zevran moans softly into his mouth when he does.

“You’ll distract me from all the things I wish to do to you, touching me this way,” he says.

Alistair is going to have a lot of words to eat for breakfast because more than once has he claimed not to understand Zevran’s appeal, and now he briefly wonders if he’ll ever stop understanding, if he’ll be able to look at Zevran in the day’s light and not feel the swooping, untethered feeling that rolls through his stomach now when Zevran looks down at him with such desire in his eyes. “What things are those?”

“Now that we’ve taken the edge off some, how about I show you a little more of what I can do?” Zevran’s smiling in that suggestive way he has, promising things Alistair once thought too good to be true but is now well convinced are entirely in the realm of Zevran’s abilities.

“Okay,” he gasps, with absolutely no idea what Zevran might mean.

This time, rather than gripping the base and focusing on the head, Zevran sucks his cock down to the root. He backs off in time for the helpless, instinctual jerk of Alistair’s hips, keeping the depth shallow but the pressure constant. Every unkind thought Alistair has ever had about the man completely evaporates from his mind. If Zevran had to kill a hundred people to learn how to use his mouth like this, may they rest peacefully at the Maker’s side in the knowledge that their sacrifice was worth it. 

“Fuck, Zevran. Fuck!” Alistair’s brain, or what’s left of it, is probably leaking out of his ears. 

Coming up for air, Zevran says, “Yes, that’s a marvelous idea. Fuck my mouth, Alistair.” He wraps his lips around Alistair’s cock again and Alistair is utterly powerless to do anything but what he’s been told. He can’t thrust too harshly, thanks to the angle, but he goes deep, and Zevran accepts it gracefully and encouragingly.

And it isn’t like Alistair didn’t know that cocksucking exists; he’s lived among soldiers, after all, heard many tales of Denerim’s most talented whores. It’s merely that he hadn’t considered it as an experience he was likely to ever have - the kind of thing one went to a professional for rather than receiving from one’s best friend’s boyfriend in the middle of camp with the Maker and everybody listening.

Then again, Zevran was raised by professionals. Perhaps that’s a contributing factor to why Alistair absolutely can no longer bring himself to care if the Maker and everybody are all listening. Zevran strokes him slow and sucks Alistair’s balls into his mouth, which makes him think he might not even be able to care if everyone was _watching_. His legs are sprawled wide and he feels absolutely brazen. Perhaps Zevran is constantly running his mouth because it desires always to be busy. His face is utterly serene, and Alistair had always thought that Zevran was exaggerating when he spoke of worshipping someone’s body, but it feels as though that’s exactly what he’s doing. He understands now, what she meant when she said that Zevran considers sex to be sacred.

His hands take over again and his mouth slides down, down, and none of the soldiers ever mentioned their whores doing _that_ , but perhaps they were ashamed of how good it felt. Alistair - habitually embarrassed, uncomfortable Alistair - cannot locate a speck of shame in the entirety of his heart or mind right now. Perhaps Zevran’s unique condition is catching, or maybe he merely has the ability to drive people past the point of being able to access it. In any case, if Alistair knew where his shame was he would absolutely not make the sounds he makes in response to Zevran sliding his utterly indecorous tongue down the crack of his ass.

“Maker, Zevran, you’re filthy,” he says. It comes out on a whine, so it doesn’t sound so much like reprobation as it does encouragement, and Zevran certainly seems to take it as such.

He also seems to take it as a compliment. “I am,” he agrees when he pulls back a bit, absolutely unrepentant. “But surely you must be as well, to enjoy it so much?”

And he _must_ be, because he does enjoy it, and because it feels so fucking good to hear Zevran say that about him. He must be, because when Zevran strokes nimble fingers over his hole, he presses into rather than away from them, and Zevran’s appreciative moan is just so _encouraging_ , but not as encouraging as the way he swallows Alistair’s cock down again. The feeling of Zevran moaning while Alistair’s stuffed down his throat is sublime but Alistair still feels hungry and malleable and wanting. It’s a yawning sort of hunger that rolls across his skin and through his belly, and he doesn’t know what it wants, or what else Zevran could possibly give.

But Zevran has some kind of magic all his own, or else his intuition is truly unfailing once his clothes come off. He slides a slim, slick finger inside and Alistair yells because yes, that, _that_! It’s hardly a surprise that a sneaky rogue like Zevran could retrieve and open whatever salve he’s using without Alistair noticing, nor that he had the foresight to bring such a thing along, but the way it feels - that’s certainly surprising. How could he have made it this far into life without realizing what his body could do, what it cried out in want of?

He can’t summon the words to express that, but nor can he keep himself from babbling, “You’re much better at this than picking locks.”

Zevran’s eyes are smiling, and so too are his lips when he releases Alistair from them. “We use different mechanisms in Antiva. But this…” he curls and uncurls the fingers he has inside Alistair. “This is the same everywhere.”

And all Alistair can do is roll his hips, all he can ask is, “More, Zevran, more?”

“Anything you ask,” he says, and his eyes reflect the sentiment completely. “Tell me, though, do you mean more of this, or more _than_ this?” Zevran’s fingers are still fucking him slowly, but he’s stopped stroking Alistair idly with his other hand, wrapping it instead around his own poor, neglected cock. 

And in this moment, either Alistair trusts Zevran to make him feel good or he’s so turned on he literally can’t say no, because he doesn’t. “Yes, please, yes,” he says, breathless and lightheaded and so ready. Zevran doesn’t move, though, doesn’t do anything other than maintain the sedate pace of his fingers, and he realizes he hasn’t actually answered the question. He tries again, and what comes out is, “Fuck me, please, now?”

“Happily,” Zevran agrees, slowly sliding out, wetting his fingers again to slick his cock. The cock Alistair has just about begged him for. A cock is thicker than fingers, and Alistair isn’t sure if it means something about his eagerness or Zevran’s skill that it feels so good, that he’s so easy to get inside.

He is absolutely drunk on Zevran and this feeling; the ends of Zevran’s hair tickling his chest, Zevran’s hands sliding admiringly up and down his biceps. His cock, of course, rocking in and out of Alistair on every patient, steady roll of Zevran’s hips. When he was conscripted, Duncan had told him that the world was wider than he knew, and that now he would have the chance to see more of it. He doesn’t know how wide he or the world can spread before breaking, but in this moment, he feels like he can encompass anything. He slides his thumb across the tattoos on Zevran’s face, fingers slipping into his hair, and kisses him, trying to make him feel the wonder and pleasure and happiness Alistair is overcome by. 

He wants it to last but he wants to come. He knows it’s going to be bigger and better than he’s ever felt, and he can’t resist the urge to wrap his other hand around his cock. “Please, allow me,” Zevran tells him, taking over. His whole body being under Zevran’s control leaves him ecstatic, weightlessly floating on the brink, and it’s so easy to go over. He shouts with it, overwhelmed, and he was right: he’s never come harder than this in his life.

Either the stars are aligned or Zevran has been patiently waiting on the edge, because he comes almost immediately thereafter, lips pressed to Alistair’s throat, murmuring words that sound like _yes, yes, beautiful_.

Zevran doesn’t leave immediately, which Alistair never would have thought about before but appreciates in the afterglow. He ends up with his head resting against Zevran’s chest, listening as his heart rate descends to normal, trying to breathe deep and slow so his own will, too. 

Zevran’s fingers card lightly through his hair, soothing and sweet. It helps the nerves and shame that are trying to crawl their way back in, but only somewhat. He’s starting to feel as though he’s made a spectacle of himself. He’s reassured by the fact that Zevran had truly seemed to enjoy himself, enjoy Alistair. But then again, Zevran not only takes no issue with being a spectacle - he seems to prefer it that way. Also, Zevran is a demonstrably depraved person. Does that mean Alistair is, too?

He just got his world rocked, but for all he knows it’s a regular day for Zevran. Or maybe Zevran enjoyed it because Alistair _did_ make a fool of himself. Alistair has, admittedly, sometimes been less than kind to him. 

“Is it always that good?” he finally asks, unable to contain his curiosity.

“Definitely not,” Zevran says with a little chuckle, which is oddly reassuring. “One can walk mindlessly through the act, treat it as a dance to which one must merely go through steps. Or one can imagine oneself elsewhere, with another partner, to make the best of a less-than desirable scenario. But no amount of skill can make up for chemistry and passion, you see.”

“I didn’t even realize we had those things,” he admits. Zevran did, of course. He’s starting to see that Zevran notices a lot, certainly more than most people give him credit for. He wonders if Zevran noticed his growing insecurity, now mostly quashed by the answer to his question. He thinks again on his friend’s words. _Zevran’s here because he wants to be_. 

“This, you will learn to recognize with time and experience. We had a lovely evening as a result of it, and you know now.”

Alistair hauls himself up, because he thinks if he’s not careful he’ll fall asleep here, in Zevran’s arms. “We certainly did.”

Zevran follows, stretching luxuriously, “I will leave you to it, then. But before I go, may I kiss you goodnight?”

Any remaining ambivalence Alistair has about what they’ve done simply vanishes with that question, with the satisfaction and fondness on Zevran’s face. “You may,” he says, trying to keep his smile from showing the true depth of warmth he feels.

He sees now, what she meant about Zevran’s sweetness, and how special he is. Zevran kisses him, slow and lingering, and leaves with a smile.

Content, exhausted, Alistair falls asleep with one, too.

* * *

It’s an easy day, a restful one, staying back at camp while the Warden returns to Orzammar to wrap some things up. Zevran privately appreciates being left behind. As a man of the world, he had delighted in the opportunity to travel beneath the surface and see how the dwarves down there lived. As an elf of the city, however, he had dearly missed sunlight and flowers and not being constantly worried about falling into lava. (The broodmother thing was not exactly a dream scenario either, other than having featured in several of his nightmares since.)

He shakes the thought from his mind, appreciating the warmth of the late afternoon sun, and goes back to his practice drills. Lunge, strike. Leap, spin, strike. He loses himself in the repetition, devotes his mind entirely to his task. So entirely, in fact, that he does not notice anyone approaching until a lunge-spin-lunge puts him facing Sten, returned with tonight's meal. 

“Ah, back so soon? Of course you are, you are a mighty hunter indeed!”

Zevran is quick and quiet, which is great for hunting small game. But Sten hasn’t the delicacy and deftness Zevran has with a knife and when he does the butchering, the meat tends to get pulverized in the process, so that will be Zevran’s task today. Leliana will cook tonight, blessedly, and Alistair is off gathering wood.

As is typical, Sten doesn’t react to this, and instead begins a different conversation entirely. “I have seen you teach the Warden some of your skills, but you are no tamrassan.”

Zevran doesn’t know what he’s getting at, but he’s glad Sten is talking to him of his own volition. It’s hard to draw Sten into a conversation, and Zevran is terribly curious about him. “I am afraid I do not know that word. What does it mean?”

“The tamrassans are a pillar of Qunari society. They raise us, teach and train us, and tend to our physical needs.”

Finally some information of interest. He knew if he was patient he’d get the juicy details eventually. “You have physical needs that require tending, my friend? I am not one of your tamrassans, but this is indeed one of my skills.”

Sten studies Zevran closely, examining his features. “Are you a woman?”

“Alas, I am not.” Zevran has met some people for whom that is a dealbreaker, but not many. He likes to think it is because he is very charming indeed, but acknowledges that it could just as well be because he is very, very easy. 

“The tamrassans are women,” Sten says. That’s not a no. 

Zevran grins. “I promise, you will scarcely mind.”

Sten seems doubtful, but maybe just a bit intrigued. (It’s possible the latter is wishful thinking on Zevran’s part.) “You are very small. I do not believe I would find your body accommodating.”

Zevran’s body has accommodated many things, organic and otherwise, and he would be very glad for the chance to add whatever Sten’s got going on to the list. “This is certainly possible. However, I believe that with the appropriate preparation I would be very pleased to give it a try.”

Sten considers for a while. “You will make no jokes about submitting to my Qun.”

Zevran laughs aloud. “I agree to your terms.”

Sten nods. “Then you may join me in my tent tonight.”

  
Dinner is delicious, of course; darling Leliana uses herbs in her cooking to ensure that unlike Alistair’s, it actually tastes like something. Zevran hardly pays attention to the good-natured jibes they make to each other about this over the campfire, wondering instead what the evening might have in store for him. He wishes for his Warden in this moment; she would be delighted to know that stern, grim Sten is a man like any other and might even have some words of advice on how best to handle him, being the only person he seems to regard with any measure of positivity other than Shale.

After, when Alistair is cleaning the dishes and Leliana plucks at her lute, Zevran makes his way over to Sten’s tent. He finds Sten sitting cross-legged, almost meditative, awaiting him.

“Have you performed your preparations?” Sten asks, straight to the point.

“Well, no,” Zevran says, beginning to strip off his clothes. “I thought it would make more sense to do that part here.”

Sten merely nods, looking at him almost impassively.

He stretches sumptuously before he begins, Sten watching with those sharp, keen eyes. “Is this meant to be entertainment?” he asks. He gives no indication that he’s not entertained, though, which Zevran takes as encouragement.

“While I do always hope to be alluring, this serves a practical purpose that you will see soon enough,” Zevran says as he begins to roll out his shoulder and wrist. He’d taken the time to stretch out properly before his earlier workout, but warming them a little will prove very helpful.

The purpose becomes evident after Zevran has arranged himself as artfully as he can in the mostly-barren tent and is well into the task of preparing himself to take whatever Sten is going to give to him, when he is able to manage the awkward angle that having most of his hand inside him necessitates.

Sten finally begins to remove his clothes, and his skin glows a lighter, brighter grey where it’s usually hidden by armor. 

“Are you beginning to believe you will find me accommodating after all?” Zevran asks, discovering with great delight that Sten had not been unmoved by his performance, evidenced by the long, hard cock that pops out when he slides off his breeches. It’s not barbed or dual-headed or anything, more’s the pity, just a proportionate response to a large, large man.

“Yes,” he agrees, positioning himself between Zevran’s widely-spread legs. 

“Wait,” Zevran says, and he does, still as a statue as Zevran pours out more oil and rubs it over his cock until it’s gleaming like polished silver, his only movement a brief flicker of his eyes when Zevran wraps both of his hands around and squeezes…

And then Zevran’s hands are gone, and he’s laying back again, inviting and open, and he says, “Now.”

Zevran isn’t the type to have expectations. He has to keep his mind always open to truly have his wits about him. He does, however, consider possibilities, and while he’s not sure whether Sten was telling the truth to Morrigan when he alluded to the couplings to which he was accustomed - after all if anyone deserves a good teasing it’s the witch - he has considered it, among the possibilities. Sten didn’t tell him to bring armor or a helmet, though, and Zevran’s always been a risk-taker anyway. 

The risk is rewarding. Sten is firm, but not fierce; inexorable, but not animalistic. His eyes study Zevran’s face as he pushes his cock inside him, straying only occasionally and briefly to what must be a very compelling image of Zevran’s ass spreading wide around the bulk of him.

“You are being gentle with me, aren’t you, Sten?” Zevran asks.

“Yes,” he confirms in his customary gruff fashion. “You are so small beneath me, and your bones feel like those of a bird. I take care because I need not make it any more unpleasant for you than it must be.”

“Well, I will tell you, this is not unpleasant at all. I have endured and even enjoyed rough treatment, but I must say, there is nothing quite like the forbearance of one who is massively strong.”

“Hm,” Sten says, focused, intent on every thrust of his hips. Zevran is happy not to force conversation. He’s accustomed to Sten being a man of few words, so it’s hardly unexpected. 

It is unexpected, after a few minutes of silence punctuated with the faintest grunts and growls, when he speaks unbidden, and even less expected is what he says.

“You’re beautiful, in a peculiar way,” Sten tells him, burning eye contact and serious expression and steady, deep strokes that make shivers run throughout Zevran’s body like ripples in a pond. He’s looking at Zevran the way he looks at those paintings the Warden gives him whenever she comes across one; satisfied and appreciative of the art before him.

“Thank you, Sten,” Zevran says breathlessly. It would be rather faint praise from any other, but it feels almost fulsome, considering the source. “I find you beautiful as well.”

“Is that so?” Sten asks, and Zevran believes he hears encouragement rather than disbelief or disinterest.

“Oh, yes,” he assures him. “Your Qun has designed you to be perfect, and you are.” That his words seem to have an affect on Sten, whose thrusts start to go shorter and faster, is very gratifying to Zevran.

“We are all meant for our best use,” Sten says, his breath starting to become labored. “Is this yours? I have seen you kill and you are very skilled, but at this _you_ are perfect.”

Zevran’s never been told how great a slut he is quite so eloquently, so he’s not prepared for how good it feels. The noise that burbles out of him is perhaps not dignified, but Zevran has found very little use for dignity in life, especially when there’s a big cock involved.

“You see?” Sten asks. “You croon and keen and I know it’s genuine because I can feel you ripple around me, I can see you throb with desire.” He touches his fingers to the wet tip of Zevran’s cock and Zevran makes a helpless, hungry sound. “What noise will you make if I take you in my hand, little elf?”

He does so. Zevran wails, and it all goes rather quickly after that. He doesn’t jerk Zevran off, just curls his fist tight, lets his hips do the work as he fucks Zevran hard and deep. He leans over, looming, and wraps his free arm under Zevran, cradling him close. 

Zevran has almost no control over his body and is loving every moment of it, allowing himself to be limp while he is maneuvered and manipulated by a large, strong man spearing him open on a big, hard cock. It’s a rare indulgence and he takes it, letting himself be lax and had. It’s easy to get off on this, and there’s no reason for him to hold off, so he does.

“Zevran,” Sten says, and that feels almost romantic coming from a man who usually calls him either ‘elf’ or nothing at all. That’s all he says before he comes, other than a deeply satisfied groan.

He doesn’t have much to say afterward, either, in typical fashion. But after they catch their breath and untangle themselves, when Zevran is gathering his clothing, Sten retrieves a waterskin and offers it to him.

“Thank you,” he says, still solemn but maybe a little less stern.

Zevran smiles warmly, taking a drink. “It was very literally my pleasure. Sleep well.”

  
The next evening finds Zevran lounging around the fire. Leliana is there, plucking pleasantly at her lyre, and Alistair is (poorly) mending some socks with occasional suggestions from Wynne as she portions the stew she made for dinner. Sten shows up, freshly-bathed, settles himself near enough the fire for it to help him dry off, and starts the business of tending to his hair.

Sten’s hands are large and strong. They are not meant for delicate work, and the angle of doing one’s own hair is always annoying. It can be annoying even for Zevran to have to do the few braids he usually likes to adorn himself with, and Zevran is a flexible man with very deft fingers. He figures that one physical need is like any other, so it probably can’t hurt to offer his help.

“Would you like me to do that for you?” he asks. His stew is too hot to eat yet anyway. “I am accomplished at many braiding styles.”

“I am capable of doing this myself,” Sten says, but he pauses in his work. Again, Zevran thinks, _that’s not a no_.

“Of course you are! But it takes you a long time, and I have very clever fingers that find themselves itchy when they have no task. You can eat sooner, this way.”

Sten seems to agree, or at least to be tired of doing it himself. He nods, and moves to settle himself on the ground in front of Zevran. Zevran uses a lockpick to separate Sten’s hair into sections, humming along to Leliana’s song as he works. It's a simple task, repetitive, and he’s just about finished when he hears Morrigan’s scoff rather than her approach.

“How heartwarming,” she mocks. “Tell me, Sten, is he your pet now, or are you his? I would have thought one way judging from the noises we heard last night, but he does seem to be _grooming_ you now.”

If Morrigan is trying to get him in trouble with the Warden, who has apparently returned to camp just in time to eat, it’s not a great tactic; she glances over at Zevran with her mouth an O of sheer delight. He knew she’d be proud of him. Morrigan doesn’t see this expression, however, because she’s too busy being smug.

Done with the last braid, he pats Sten companionably on the shoulder and goes back to the bowl of stew he’d set aside to cool. “Jealousy is unbecoming of a woman so alluring, dear Morrigan. Surely there is time yet for your charms to work on him?” Truthfully, Zevran thinks that the only reason Sten hadn’t fucked Morrigan instead is because she’s a mage; her caustic tongue does nothing to detract from her great beauty. (Zevran being who he is, it probably only adds to it.)

“Hardly,” she brushes off. “I was only ever teasing, after all. I had no intent to truly lay with him. ‘Tis pleasant enough, but I fail to see the point of doing it recreationally.”

“Um, mind-blowing orgasms?” he suggests. 

“That’s not real,” she says bluntly. “Certainly feeble-minded fools can work themselves into any manner of frenzy, I’ve witnessed this many times with barbarians in the Wilds, flogging themselves while worshipping their spirits.”

It’s interesting how Morrigan talks about barbarians as though she isn’t one, but it’s not the most interesting thing by far. Zevran, easygoing and unserious and very close to unflappable, drops his spoon in the dirt and looks around the fire in alarm. The Warden, Leliana, and Wynne all have on varying levels of pity in their expressions. Even Alistair, who knows little of women and also hates Morrigan, looks more alarmed than amused.

Summoning all of his composure, Zevran says, “I can assure you, they are quite real and wonderful! Perhaps you have not done the requisite explorations to discover this for yourself.”

She looks at him with the absolute scathing expression of one who has never considered the fact that her beliefs and perceptions are not beyond reproach. “Do you presume to tell me about what I am capable of?”

He takes a delicate sip from his bowl. “I presume nothing, dear witch, I merely humbly offer my skills to the cause of proving to you that there is magic in you beyond what you know.”

“Yes, I’m sure having you thrusting haphazardly away will bring me to peaks of pleasure I have never yet seen,” she says, eyes rolling. 

The Wardens both cough rather conspicuously, and in unison, but he has the honor of his prowess to defend and cannot break to waggle his eyebrows suggestively at them. “I would argue that there is certainly nothing haphazard about my approach, but that is of no concern when I can bring you to a most satisfying completion with only my hands or mouth, is it?”

Morrigan appears unmoved by this suggestion. “And what do I get out of it when you’re proven wrong, when you’re unable to bring me to speak in tongues of abject lust? My time wasted. Your ‘skills’ are of no use to me.”

“A bet,” someone coughs into their hand, but he’s so focused on Morrigan that he doesn’t see the motion out of the corner of his eye, doesn’t know which of their friends it came from. (It’s either a Warden or a rogue; the friend who is both is a likely culprit but he really can’t be sure.)

“A bet, then,” he offers. “Anything you ask of me should I fail.”

She regards him with narrowed yellow eyes. “And say what I ask of you is silence? You, unspeaking, with the aid of a restraint if necessary?” She pauses, considering. “For a full week. That is what I would ask of you.”

She seems to think this threat alone will shut him up, while Alistair’s looking like he’s no longer sure which one of them he wants to be proven wrong. Zevran can’t be histrionically wounded by this betrayal because he has far more important things to worry about. It is certainly possible that Morrigan is one of those who is simply unable to truly get off; it’s not like he doesn’t know that such people exist. It’s simply that he really is willing to be gagged for a week if he’s wrong in his estimation that Morrigan is just so tightly-wound that it’s difficult for her. He’s been gagged before. His mouth has often gotten him in trouble. 

It has also often gotten him out of it. “I gladly and gratefully accept.”

She looks like she didn’t expect that. “And you keep all of your clothes on.”

“Of course. This is about your pleasure and not my own, after all. But if you decide that seeing my lovely, lithe body would contribute to your pleasure, I will certainly agree to show it to you.”

She rolls her eyes again, theatrically. “Very well. Let’s go.”

There’s a chorus of hooting around the campfire. Zevran grins, gleeful. “Now? Are you so eager, beautiful witch?”

“Eager to have you quiet,” she shoots back, heading in the direction of her tent. 

He hops up and follows, quick at her heels, blowing a parting kiss to his friends. He enters to find that there are piles of furs in her tent; trophies of her morning hunts, he assumes. It makes it much cozier than he expected.

“Well?” she asks imperiously, settling herself down amongst them. “Get on with it.”

He sits down across from her, leaving a couple of feet of space. “I rather think that attitude is part of your problem. One cannot truly enjoy oneself if one is braced and uncomfortable.”

“Are you insinuating that you have the power to make me uncomfortable, elf?” Her expression is sour.

Zevran is ready for this, of course; it would have been folly to assume that Morrigan would make this easy for him when she can’t even make things easy for herself most of the time. She’s yet to learn to keep her judgments in her mind rather than her mouth, but Zevran understands. It is a lesson hard-learned. “Not at all, merely that you grew up in the kind of harsh environment that makes one watchful and wary at all times for the threat that is always looming, and that is not conducive to allowing oneself to be in the frame of mind to be receptive to stimuli as anything but warnings.”

“Is giving me a ‘we’re not so different after all’ speech what you think will put me at ease to receive your ministrations?”

He chuckles. “Well, put that way one could draw parallels, but no, we are very different people. You, for instance, are a mage. Even unarmed you have immense power, but it’s a power that others fear enough to hunt you for. Perhaps it makes more sense for you to cut yourself off from people for your own survival, where a skinny and defenseless little elf like me would have had to learn to work with them to the same end.”

“Perhaps ‘tis so,” she relents. “But the fact remains that you are here because you believe I can’t possibly be right, which is hardly _conducive_ to me falling prey to your seductions.”

“I have no quarrel with you being right. I think you are right about a number of things. No, it is simply that I have a romantic soul. Yes, you have challenged my ability and I would delight in proving it to you. But really, it is not about me. If I succeed, and you are quiet enough about it, I would be happy to pretend to our friends that I have lost, if only to show you what I mean. This life is a rough lot for apostates and elves, and we should all take what pleasure we can from it.”

She studies his face closely, perhaps looking for evidence of dishonesty. If so, there is none; he is being perfectly truthful. He doesn’t think it’s likely that someone as pent-up as Morrigan will have a first orgasm quietly, but if she can he would gladly leave here exaggeratedly shamefaced and mournful and admitting false defeat if it means he gets to give it to her. “Very well,” she says, at length.

“May I remove your boots, then?”

She seems to approve of his courteousness, if nothing else. “You may,” she grants. 

He does so, unlacing them quickly and setting them aside along with her socks. She breathes in deep and slow when he takes one foot in his hands and squeezes it between them. He doubts very much she has been tended to in this way before, and sets to do as thorough a job as he can, rubbing tight muscles and pressing into hollows. 

When she sighs approvingly, he asks, “Shall I rub your back next, then? Surely it aches from carrying all of our weight in battle so often?”

She laughs, seemingly despite herself. “I’ll not deny your skill with pretty words and sculpting lies, but I am yet to be convinced to show my back to an assassin.”

He laughs too, much more carefree. “What need have I for lies when simple facts will do? You are a Witch of the Wilds, feral and free as you are beautiful, and so powerful and dangerous that you make men quake in fear. Certainly none of those things are even exaggerations.”

“Mm. And I suppose _you_ don’t find me dangerous?”

“Quite the opposite,” he assures her. “It is merely that the instinct to run from danger has long since been trained out of me.”

“And how did they achieve that? Beatings?”

“Sometimes,” he agrees. “Tell me, does that thought excite you?”

“Perhaps,” she says carelessly, and he presses his thumbs firmly into the arches of either foot. She closes her eyes and lets out a low, pleased moan. “You do seem to gluttonously seek punishment, if the conversational overtures you make to most of us are any indication. Do you take lashings well, Zevran?”

“I learned to. Is that something you would like to see?”

She eyes him. “And if I wished to do more than see?”

He shakes his head, good-natured, as though it pains him to admit. “There are many requests I would grant you, but that one, I think, I would leave to the hands of our Warden alone. I’m certain she would be inclined to let you watch, however.”

“And what makes you so sure of that?”

“I have seen the way she looks at you. I believe she would take you to her bed, if you wished it.”

Morrigan… blushes? It’s faint but it is most certainly there, and Zevran is wise enough to make no mention of it. He is, however, trying to arouse her, so he pushes a little. This seems promising. “I know she finds you most comely,” he continues, trying to gauge her reaction. 

“You could have her here as easily as me,” he says, hands focused now on one of her calves. “If I am not pleasing enough, or if you would simply prefer, I could get her for you. You could let her worship you with her body the way I have seen her do with her eyes.”

“I - I would never do such a thing,” she says, stuttering but finally able to speak. It’s almost a whisper, though, and this moment is so delicate that Zevran has to be very careful not to break it.

“Perhaps not,” he says casually, rolling the heel of a palm against the muscle. “But surely a little fantasy isn’t such a terrible thing? Your mind is your own, and she need never know what places you explore in it for the sake of your pleasure.”

“She’d know if you told her.”

“Then how about this: I shall not.” He moves on to her other leg, starting again from the ankle to work his way up.

“And if she asks you of tonight?”

He nods, because this is a reasonable question. “Sometimes she does ask,” he agrees. “And sometimes I tell her. But she never presses me for details beyond what I wish to share. Think of it like this: if you asked me what I have done with Alistair, I would not tell you, because I know he would be uncomfortable and very displeased.” He’s not talking about anything that isn’t common knowledge - anyone who had been in camp that night had definitely heard it happening and anyone who hadn’t had definitely heard _about_ it. He’s certainly heard Morrigan tease Alistair about it. (She doesn’t bother teasing Zevran because she knows Zevran has no shame; Morrigan usually only strikes where she smells blood.) “Whatever you don’t wish her to know, be it this detail alone or everything that has occurred since I followed you here, she will not hear from me.”

“Just that,” she says, too quickly, and tries to brush it off. “What do you fantasize about, then?”

“Oh, many things! I have fantasized about _you_ , I hope we are friendly enough now that I can admit this.”

She snorts a little laugh. “Oh, yes? And how is this experience comparing to your little fantasies?”

His hands are playing at the ends of her skirt and he blinks at her most sultrily. “Once we get to that part, I will tell you, how does that sound?”

Her eyes are looking a little dark, and he has the feeling that the time has come. “Morrigan, may I?” he asks, sweet as can be.

“Yes,” she says, voice barely above a whisper. 

Her skirt is nicer to the touch than he expected, the piecemeal hides worn and soft. He slides it up and she lays back upon her furs instead of just leaning against them when he presses his lips to the inside of one thigh and scratches his fingernails lightly up the other. He knows he has to strike a delicate balance, tease her enough to get her worked up but not enough that it’s frustrating. He explores, delights, but tries not to tarry too long; when she lets out a gasp at the scrape of his teeth high inside her thigh, his excellent sense of timing tugs at him again. He licks her, thorough and slow.

“Oh,” she says helplessly, and he can hear her nails scratching for purchase in her furs. The small, alarmed sound of her voice makes his heart feel so tender. It’s like she just learned something fundamental about the universe that nobody ever bothered to tell her. It makes him a little greedy and he gets a bit ahead of himself, wanting to give her everything he can. He takes long, broad licks, presses his tongue inside to see if it’s easy, see if she likes it. He has the presence of mind to avoid her clit in case it’s too much too soon, but he gets a bit carried away, until she’s breathing in hiccupping little gasps and he thinks it might be a good time to give her a moment. He slides his hands up her thighs, rubs his thumbs inside them, a whisper away from where he really wants to touch her. 

“Have none of your Wilder men done this for you?” he asks, certain of the answer and dismayed in advance.

She shakes her head. 

“They are fools,” he declares. “You taste divine here. Will you let me have more?” 

Apparently all it takes to make Morrigan quiet and agreeable is a little courtesy and cunt-eating. Zevran would be happy to use this information in the future for the sake of the team, but he doesn’t know if he’ll have the opportunity, so he must savor it now. She nods, and he has a magnificent idea.

“Wonderful!” he says, sitting up instead of going back to where he’s needed most. “I think this calls for a change in position, though.” He lays down flat next to her, and when he’s comfortably positioned, taps his mouth suggestively. He is very pleased at the blush that runs up her face when she understands what he means.

“You mean for me to…?” she gestures in his direction.

“I certainly do, lovely witch.”

“Won’t I hurt you?”

“Do you care?” She hesitates, which is a nicer answer than he was expecting. “Let me put it this way: in the unlikely event that you break my nose, Wynne will be truly scandalized when I ask her to heal it, which I think is a win for you all around?”

She makes a face that looks like _actually that does sound pretty good_ , but still seems shy about it. “Morrigan,” he says solemnly. “Do me the honor of sitting on my mouth and using me for your pleasure.”

The woman who argued with him earlier is now absent; in this tent there is only the one who slides out of her skirt and onto his lips. She settles down a bit gingerly, but after a few seconds of having her clit sucked into Zevran’s lush mouth, her inhibitions begin to slip away from her grasp; her hips start to stutter and so does she. “Zev-, Zev-, Zevran,” she moans, and he slides two of his fingers inside her. She’s done a good job at keeping her noises relatively contained so far but the dam breaks and she can’t seem to stop herself from singing out a refrain, _oh oh oh oh oh_ , each repetition increasing in vociferousness. 

“Mmm _hmmm_ ,” he says, as encouragingly as he can with his mouth currently busy, settles his free hand on her hip to help steady her and keeps doing exactly what he’s doing and doesn’t change a thing, because if she wanted or needed him to she’d be able to speak in actual words. His perseverence is soon rewarded when she cries out high and comes magnificently with her body tense and hands in his hair, leaving him dripping down the mouth, chin, and neck, and desperately turned-on.

She tips off of him rather inelegantly, sitting next to him rather than on him. He elects not to get up, as he doesn’t know if she’s done with him yet. He hasn’t touched himself this entire time, even to press a comforting hand against the erection he’s had since he first put his tongue to her. Nobody ever expects Zevran to be as good at patience and self-control as he is at killing, despite the fact that they are the foundations upon which his skill is based.

If Zevran ever considered that perhaps part of Morrigan’s appeal lay in her aloofness, he is disabused of that notion by the sight of her red-faced and gasping with her lovely chest heaving. 

“I may never say these words again, but you’ve earned them: you were right, Zevran.”

Zevran feels pure delight at this glimpse of Morrigan’s sense of honor and what’s proper. He’s pleased to hear it, of course, it’s just that he finds it terribly precious that she feels he deserves to. Morrigan has further depths even she has yet to plumb.

“And you wear my victory beautifully,” he says. “Shall we go again, then? Would you have more of me?”

Somewhat unexpectedly, she glances down at the obvious bulge where his erection presses insistently against his pants. That is not at all what he’s talking about, of course, but it’s wonderfully flattering to see her consider it. He knows she won’t; she’s too stubborn, and he’s already proven her wrong tonight. That it even crossed her mind he will take as the deepest compliment, and it must suffice to hope to himself that she has taken his suggestion about fantasies to heart. He’s just glad she’s noticed his temperance; if one must suffer beautifully one should at least be observed doing so.

“I… I think that will be sufficient,” she says, reaching for her discarded skirt and smoothing back her hair.

Zevran sits up, wiping his mouth off and sucking his fingers clean. The collar of his shirt is damp. What a night. Morrigan looks as though she wants to thank him but can’t bring herself to.

He’s made it easy for her so far. No harm in continuing the trend, so he takes her hand and kisses the knuckle, most genteel. “Thank you for a lovely evening, Morrigan. You were much better than the fantasy.”

She nods abruptly, starting to flush a little again.

What a night, indeed. He departs with a flourish.

  
Zevran’s night is not over, though. Despite the fact that he is terribly aroused and desperately wishes to do something about it, it’s his turn to do dishes. It will be no pleasant job after being left for so long, but he’d rather take his time than rub out a quick one, so it’ll be better to take care of those first. He takes a deep, steadying breath and heads that way after he leaves her tent… only to find they are done, and so he returns to his own.

He strips immediately, and lays back to get comfortable. It’s divine, to be blissfully naked and free, and he revels in it. There’s the faintest whisper of sound and his Warden, even better than he at skulking through shadows, seeps out of them, sliding her hands up his legs. 

“I heard you,” she says, and he’s a professional, so he makes sure to ask before admitting anything.

“Did you, now? And what did you hear?”

She smiles. “Only the parts that were loud enough for everyone.”

“And you are here to rate my performance?”

“Oh, no, my love. I’m here to reward you for it.” He’s been turned on for so long, and it takes little more than the tone of her voice to send a frisson of electricity through him. To be cared for so deeply by this woman, to be so accepted and understood! It’s much more than he deserves, but he is too poor and weak a man to refuse embarrassing riches. _My love_ , she says, finding neither concern nor displeasure in the fact that her love keeps fucking her friends. He would stop, if she wanted him to. It wouldn’t even be a hardship. But the fact that she doesn’t makes him ache with adoration.

“They say a job well done is its own reward,” he says. “But I am inclined to accept whatever you offer.”

“You did good, Zevran, you did so good,” she murmurs into the pulse point by his ear, the praise and her presence lighting up places all through his body and mind. There’s nothing in all the world like the feeling that unfurls in him when she tells him how good he’s been.

She licks into his mouth, kisses him deeply, tasting what Morrigan left behind. “I knew you desired her,” he whispers with a smile.

“I’ve had fantasies,” she agrees. “None of which compare to the reality of you. Did you really fuck Sten?”

“Well, he fucked me, technically.”

She laughs, absolutely joyous, and wraps her hand around his cock. Having gone untouched for so long, it feels absolutely heavenly.

“So, what is it you intend to do with the reality of me?” he asks, writhing in her grip.

“You did good work tonight. I thought I might suck you off and let you go to sleep.”

That sounds promising enough, but he can’t help but think she might have left her clothes on if getting him off was all she really wanted to do. “When there’s good work yet to be done, my sweet?”

His Warden grins her mischievous grin, and repositions herself atop him. “It was foolish of Morrigan to let this go to waste,” she says, sliding flirtatiously against him. She doesn’t tease for long, though, saying, “I won’t make that mistake,” and sliding the length of him inside her.

It doesn’t take much for either of them. She’s taller than him, heavier and human, and stronger too. When she presses his wrists to the ground he has very little hope of going anywhere, and even less desire to. He struggles a little, because it’s fun, because it makes him come harder when she’s looming over him and he is under her complete command. 

She can tell when he’s ready to come. He knows because she switches her grip to hold both his wrists in one hand so she’s free to use the other to rub herself off. She likes to watch him strain against her, and he loves it when she uses him. They’re a grand team, and they reach a grand finish.

“Did you do the dishes for me?” he asks later, when they’re getting ready to go to bed.

“Me and Leliana.”

“Thank you, my sweet, that was very kind.”

“No thanks necessary, it was entirely selfish. I didn’t want you to have to waste any time before getting back to me.”

“Here I am,” he says, crawling into the bedroll with her.

“Here you are,” she agrees, curling around him. She presses her hand against his stomach and a kiss to his neck, and they go to sleep.

* * *

In the morning, Alistair is up early. The errand the Warden returned from the previous night had brought her through the Brecilian Forest and the Dalish camp, where tea is in no short supply, so he brews some and pours a cup for Leliana. She may not approve of his sensibilities when it comes to cooking, but this she never has any complaints about. They giggle a little together over the previous night’s jokes, but mostly enjoy the early morning quietly and companionably. 

The sun is barely rising when Morrigan comes stomping into camp in bear form, with a lamb over her shoulder. She dumps it on the ground at Leliana’s feet. 

“Good morning, Morrigan!” she says cheerfully, as though they hadn’t very recently been gossiping about her. “This is certainly a glorious bounty.”

Watching Morrigan change shapes is always uncomfortably uncanny, but hard to look away from. Alistair can never bring himself to, at least, but watching hair melt off as she turns back into a beautiful, if awful, woman is infinitely preferable to watching the mass of eyes appear and disappear as she goes into and out of spider form. 

“Out with it, then,” she demands when her transformation is complete. “I’ve poked my fun at you, and now it’s your turn.”

“Morrigan,” he says. “I think you are an absolute heinous bitch, but I would never begrudge you the unique blessing the Maker granted us both.”

She looks like she’s trying to sniff out bullshit, but there is none to be smelled. Alistair knows what it’s like to have his worldview shifted by a single night with Zevran, so it’s the least he can do to be sporting about it. More importantly, grateful though he may be for the bits of grouse and rabbit they manage to scrounge up sometimes, his mouth absolutely waters at the idea of fresh, plentiful meat. If a little courtesy is all it takes, then perhaps one day he’ll make a passable diplomat after all, because he is happy to do it. 

“I teased you absolutely mercilessly for at least a week,” she reminds him. 

“As I said, you’re a bitch. I’m not gonna lie, I would have been perfectly happy for you to have gagged him for a week, but that’s the thing, you know. That was a victory you would have shared with us all. And you seem to be sharing your bounty regardless.” He gestures at the lavish offering she’d dropped at their feet, probably freshly stolen from a farmer’s flock. (He’s not complaining, or planning on mentioning it.) “I truly respect that.”

“Thank you, Alistair,” she says, stilted.

“Thank _you_ ,” he replies. “I’ve had so much porridge and stew, my own arm was starting to look appetizing. Can I get you some tea?”

She agrees. 

It’s amazing how good a mood plentiful meat can put people in. Then again, it’s also amazing how good a mood Zevran’s mouth put Morrigan in.

When the Warden wakes, she and Zevran have switched positions. She uncurls from his grasp gently, wanting to leave him to his well-earned rest, and heads out to the campfire, where she finds Leliana hard at work trying to skin a lamb. She’s doing it entirely wrong, but trying very hard.

“Oh, I’m so glad you’re awake!” she cries. Leliana can use a knife, but she doesn’t have an assassin’s skill with them, so she would probably have been equally glad to see Zevran. “Take over for me, and I’ll make some more tea for you?”

She agrees, and gets to work, happy to have a mindless task that doesn’t force her to make a life-or-death decision about someone else’s life. Leliana had managed hanging and draining just fine, and the Warden skins it easily enough. 

People mill about as she works, the normal business of camp in the morning. Drinking tea, having porridge, sitting near the fire because the sun’s not high enough for it to be at all warm yet. She laughs and jokes with them occasionally, more focused on her task than anything else. Perhaps it’s this focus that leaves her too distracted to see Wynne’s concern coming.

“You seem to be… amused, by last night’s events,” Wynne says, chopping up the roots and tubers they intend to roast with the meat.

“Very much so,” she agrees. She is also amused by offering no more than that, so Wynne must continue for herself.

“You have a claim on him, and yet you allow him to run amok upon your companions? Who’s next, Oghren?”

She manages, heroically, not to snort. Easy as he is, Zevran does have standards, and Oghren doesn’t meet them. Oghren seems to believe that being disgusting is a personality trait, and it’s entirely possible he’s never washed his dick. It would probably be as simple as taking a proper bath to get Zevran into his bed... and yet.

Instead, she says, “I make only the claims of him that I wish.”

“Yet you are a Grey Warden,” Wynne insists. “There is authority in your position.”

“It’s really not a big deal,” the Warden says. “I can’t see any harm in Zevran spreading goodwill in his signature fashion. Quite the opposite, in fact. Look, Morrigan’s a bitch, but I like her. I’m not the jealous type, but if I was? Even bitches deserve to come. Especially bitches, maybe.” She gestures to the fat lamb she’s butchering, which Leliana says was brought by the bitch in question, who’d gone for an early hunt after arising from her tent this morning with a spring in her step and an uncharacteristic, almost pleasant expression on her face. (According to Leliana, at least.)

Wynne’s had hard bread and salted meat for her last three meals. The Warden’s leniency about where her paramour spends his evenings probably seems a little less like permissiveness and a failure to take her own position seriously and a little more like heroism when Wynne considers the prospect of a fresh, hot meal that isn’t porridge. “I suppose that’s fair. Still, it surprises me that you invite him to share your bedroll,” says in that tone she uses when she’s not judging, she’s helping. 

“It surprises me that you don’t.” The Warden has her own tones to work with. This is the guileless one she uses when neither dry nor earnest will suit the listener. 

Wynne is alarmed by this. She was clearly gearing up for a good lecture regardless of the multiple amazing meals Zevran’s beautiful mouth has earned them all, but finds herself driven off course almost immediately. “I - excuse me?”

“Well, with everything you told me about your situation, I guess I would have just assumed…” She trails off, fake-delicately, focuses on pulling out entrails.

“Assumed?” Wynne’s voice goes just a little higher at the end.

“That you might want to go out with a bang? I know I would.”

Wynne holds herself rather stiffly. “Even if I did, Zevran is an attractive man, but he’s rather young for me and I find his tastes perverse.”

The Warden laughs. “Zevran has more tastes than could be bound in a single volume, but I suppose that’s fair. I guess I just figured you don’t have to be interested in plumbing the depths of his mommy issues for there to be some appeal to bossing him around.” She very diplomatically does not add _you **love** bossing people around_.

Wynne seems as though she hadn’t considered that, but concludes, “It’s of no matter. Even if I wished to, there comes an age at which one prefers a bed to the ground for such activities.”

“Well, being a Warden means I won’t reach such an age,” she replies a bit blithely. It’s still something of a sore spot. 

Wynne winces; sometimes she forgets not to push too hard on her customary _you’ll see when you’re my age_ routine. “Anyhow, surely you don’t take his flirtations seriously? He’s only poking fun at an old lady.”

She does snort this time. “The same way he pokes fun at Morrigan? At Alistair? Sten?” 

“He seems rather overconfident in his ability,” Wynne brushes off.

There is absolutely no need to dignify that with a response. Wynne had not been able to look her precious Alistair in the face for days after the night Zevran spent with him. Again, the Warden laughs. “I think you’ve misjudged him, somewhat.”

“Well, he is rather boastful. And some of the things he says sound quite impossible.”

“No, what I mean is that you’ve been distracted by the mask he wears. It’s not entirely false, is the thing. It’s a stylized version that can only partially hide the truth of him.”

“And what truth is that?” Wynne asks, eyebrows high. 

“That he is eager to please and happy to take direction. One of those qualities in a man is rare enough. To have them both as well as the skill to back it up? I take my blessings where I get them, Wynne, even if they’re in the form of an Antivan assassin my enemy sent to kill me. He’s the high point, in all the things that have happened to me recently.”

(The other truth is that she’s pretty sure he annoys the people who don’t give in to his charms so they’ll take him to bed and take it out on him. She leaves that one out, just in case. No sense in hurting his chances of success.)

“You have had an uncommonly difficult time, haven’t you, my friend?” Wynne asks.

“I have. But the good company makes it better, and the wonderful meal we’re all going to share once this is prepared is going to help too.” She grins and gestures to the carcass she’s almost done with.

Wynne smiles. “It _is_ nice to have real meat from time to time,” she admits.

The Warden keeps a studiously straight face and says absolutely nothing to the effect of, _yeah, that’s what I’ve_ been _saying_.

* * *

Wynne doesn’t really understand their relationship, but it seems that the Warden is both truly at ease letting Zevran hop beds like a hungry tic and also not above enabling it. It’s not long at all before they’re headed back to Denerim, fighting Loghain’s men in dirty alleys in between trying to offload junk and buy necessities and perform favors. When the business of the day is done, the Warden doesn’t bat an eye when she says that she’d really love a proper bath and to sleep in a bed tonight, and purchases them rooms at an inn for the evening. Wynne almost believes it’s unrelated. Almost.

They have dinner at the inn, and when the Warden finishes her ale and says she’s off to bed, Zevran doesn’t follow. Then again, she did mention earlier that she planned on sleeping for no less than ten hours, and seemed serious. Leliana goes off to play because the inn's minstrel is at the Pearl for the evening, and Wynne is left alone with Zevran, still sipping at his beer with his eyes smiling at the sound of Leliana’s lute. He really is a good-looking man. Perhaps annoyingly mischievous, but for someone who has lived what is undoubtedly a life of great hardship, there is a deep joy to him that is clear on his face, in the lines around his eyes.

Watching him enjoying the brief respite, she starts to see a hint of what the lechery sometimes obscures from her vision. The points the Warden had made are beginning to seem more salient and cogent.

He turns his honey-gold eyes on her and says, “What do you say, Wynne? Shall we dance?”

“Thank you, but these knees aren’t what they once were.” Before she even knows she’s going to, she adds, “Perhaps you’ll be kind enough to escort me to my room.”

“Certainly,” he says, so agreeable she almost wonders if the Warden has told him to await Wynne’s call. Then again, Zevran is agreeable in general, in manner at least. It’s his mouth she usually finds objectionable. 

Wisely, Zevran doesn’t ask why she has called upon him in this fashion, merely gets up to stand behind her chair to pull it out for her. Credit where it’s due - he does gallant well enough. When she’s up, he offers his arm. She curves her hand around the bend of his elbow and they depart the dining room. The inn is not very big, so it’s not a long trip to the hall where most of the rooms are. He takes her to the door of hers before speaking again.

“Shall I wish you a good evening here, then, or do you have further need of me? Perhaps you would like help getting into bed.” To his credit, he manages to say that without laying it on too thick. He doesn’t waggle his eyebrows, or coo, or smile his suggestive smile. It’s a good performance. This might be Zevran on his best behavior.

She laughs a little. “Well, I wondered how long it would take for you to resume your jesting about trying to get me into bed.”

“My dear Wynne, you are mistaken. I have never been jesting, but nor have I been trying.”

“Is that so?” she asks, a little confused. Possibly a little disappointed. Perhaps the Warden had misunderstood?

“It is no jest that I find you attractive,” he declares, and she finds no falsehood in his eyes, gazing at her soulfully. He takes hold of the hand she still has tucked in his arm. “And I have merely been making it known that should you call upon me, I would gladly answer in whatever way you saw best fit. If I were trying, I dare say you would find me more charming.” 

“I suppose anything would be an improvement on how charming I currently find you,” she says drily. 

He smiles, and it is in fact rather charming. “And yet you have been looking at me with such curiosity these last few days.”

Whatever her mind might argue, her body has clearly not paid heed. This close, Zevran is very enticing. She can feel the warmth of him even through her robes, can smell the tart lemon-sage of the oils he uses on his hair and skin. His nearness brings electricity sparking through her. “Sometimes I wonder how far those markings go,” she admits. 

“Now that is a curiosity easily sated,” he offers. “If it would please you, I would be more than happy to take my clothes off for your gratification. You needn’t touch, if you care not to, and I can put them back on and leave when your curiosity is sated.”

The offer is terribly tempting. “And what would you get out of that?”

“The satisfaction of being admired by a woman whom I admire greatly?”

“And that’s it.” In Wynne’s experience, men are generally agreeable to whatever will get them into a woman’s bedroom, with either hopes or machinations to get what they actually want once inside. Then again, there are no secrets in camp, and the gossip says that Zevran tended to Morrigan with neither the intent nor the outcome of any physical release of his own. 

“Well,” he admits, just shy of self-deprecating, “I never managed to break the habit of desiring the approval of a wiser woman.” 

This is interesting, and it’s certainly news. Wynne has been under the impression that Zevran’s main desire is to collect conquests. “You desire my approval?”

“Oh, yes,” he says eagerly. 

How curious a man Zevran is, to be so deeply aware of his own incentives. Perhaps in being broken down by the Crows and learning how to identify others’ motivations to exploit them, Zevran had found himself distilled, had learned to identify his own as easily. 

“Very well,” she says. “Let us see if you can gain it.”

His smile is a joyous thing. He follows her inside. 

She lights the lanterns with a spell, almost reflexive, and upon second thought follows it with another, different spell. She’s not certain that anything that happens here with Zevran might be heard through walls, floors, and doors, but it can never hurt to be prepared. She would seriously consider retiring to the Circle if their companions could hear her in the kind of state she’s heard them. She might still have to, if word reaches Morrigan. Secrets are hard to keep in close company. 

But her friend the Warden was not wrong: there is only so much life to live, and Wynne has a more guaranteed expiration date than everyone else. It’s possible that they may all survive the Blight; it’s unlikely that Wynne will see another summer. 

There’s something of summer about Zevran, perhaps in the warmth of his smile or the heat of his eyes. He could smolder in a snowstorm, and he has a particular beauty to him. There are worse options. (There are better ones also, or there would be if Sten didn’t distrust mages so much. Alas.)

There’s really only the bed to sit on, so she does. “How shall I do this?” he asks when she’s settled. “Efficiently, or erotically?”

After some thought, she decides, “How about somewhere between those two?”

His boots go first, laces parting easily to clever fingers. He unclasps his armor quickly, but his movements are undeniably sultry when he pulls it all off. When he’s done he sets everything aside neatly and stands proud before her, neither a stitch of clothing nor shame to be seen. 

Not that he has anything to be ashamed of, even if he had some understanding of the concept. (It is her opinion that he does not.) He’s thin and wiry, but leanly muscled and very pleasing to the eye. He gives a slow turn without her having to ask, showing her how the tattoos snake down his clavicle, under his arm and around to his back. His tattoos stop and start in sharp, curving patterns like the ones on his face, accentuating his natural assets: pert ass, strong thighs. He has what look like whip scars on his back, but they do nothing to detract from his beauty, and he finishes his revolution with a flourish. Under her gaze, his cock starts to fill out, apparently not disinterested in the goings-on. 

“That easy?” she asks, attempting valiantly to not be flattered. 

He smiles serenely. “They do call me that, yes.”

“You have a beautiful body,” she grants.

He doesn’t preen - outwardly at least - but she’s sure he’s pleased to hear it. “Thank you,” he says graciously. “I am sure you do as well. I wonder if I will be so lucky as to ever find out for myself.”

Wynne is no withered and prudish crone. She has needs yet, ones she is rather accomplished at tending to on her own. But if there’s a magical substitute for a flesh-and-blood cock, Wynne has yet to find it, and there’s a willing one here in her bedroom, practically delivered on a platter. 

So she says, “I suppose it’s a prerequisite.”

“That, dear Wynne, depends on what you intend to do with me. Morrigan showed me nothing that wasn’t vital to the proceedings.”

“Morrigan shows just about everything on a daily basis,” she reminds him.

“It’s true,” he says admiringly. 

She sighs, but beckons him over nonetheless, allowing him to undress her. Robes are rather easy-in easy-out, but he seems to savor every step: gazing up at her as he removes her boots, grazing her skin as he helps her slip out of her robes. His hands are soft, uncalloused; he always wears gloves when handling his daggers. It doesn’t take long before he’s looking at her appreciatively.

“I see now why they call you an enchanter,” he says. It’s a terrible line, but also unfortunately terribly endearing. His face certainly sells it, as his eyes skim across her body. He grins when she laughs, completely unself-conscious and unperturbed. “And how would you like it, then? Shall I make love to you tonight, or serve you?”

This is a question she has never heard before, and it takes a moment to consider. But if she’s being bold, making good use of her time... she knows which she wants. “Serve me,” she says, and his grin only widens. 

“With great pleasure,” he replies.

“Where shall we begin?” he asks gamely after he hops up onto the bed with her, sitting with his legs patiently tucked under him as he awaits her demands. She feels a little awkward like this, unsure of how to proceed. Usually when she takes a man to bed it’s in a heated moment, not negotiated and agreed upon like buying a potion in the market.

Unlike most merchants, Zevran is willing to give her anything she wants. There’s nothing she could possibly want to ask of him that he wouldn’t be willing to do, which is freeing but worrying at the same time. She huffs out a desperate little laugh. “I’m not even sure how you convinced me to do this.”

Zevran, wisely, does not say anything about how he’s done no convincing at all and is here at her generous invitation. “Ah, it is as I have said: I am very charming.”

Wynne’s curiosity gets the better of her. “And how did you charm Sten?”

“I had no need to. He approached me with stories of those who tend to the Qunari’s physical needs. I merely asked if he wished me to do so for him in their absence.”

“And how did you tend to him?” He hesitates briefly, which is surprising. “Are you embarrassed?”

“Not at all, merely trying to determine how to put it, as I believe you will find my phrasing crass,” he says with an almost apologetic half-shrug.

“It’s crass to talk about such things in mixed company, when one ought to be focused on the darkspawn at hand,” she informs him. “You are naked in my bed. You may speak plainly.”

“He fucked me,” Zevran says, plain as anything. It’s not like she really expected a different answer, but she thought maybe he would dress it up a bit. That electric feeling thrills through her again. “Does that surprise you?”

It doesn’t, of course. She shakes her head.

“No, it wouldn’t, would it? Everyone knows, after all. Does it arouse you?”

Now that’s a better question, and he clearly knows it. “Hm,” she says, instead of answering. “I rather thought you were so skilled that you would be able to figure out what arouses me on your own.”

He grins. “It’s true, I do excel at the hands-on approach. Shall I show you?”

Unable to find her voice, Wynne nods. He reaches out to trace her lips with the gentlest touch, letting his fingers then trail her neck to cross her clavicle and then feather slowly down her arm and back up again. His touch, sure but soft and fleeting, makes the nerves in her skin sing to life, flowers under the sun. When he leans in to press his lips to the pulse at her neck, she sighs and sinks a little, back into the pillows behind her. Zevran follows, using both hands now, sliding them up and down her belly and ribs while his mouth drops aimless kisses wherever it finds itself.

Perhaps this is why Zevran always wears those gloves, to keep his hands soft as whispers so he can drive his lovers mad with them. It certainly feels like madness is befalling her, as the arousal that’s been trickling through her since he stood hopefully at her doorway starts to pour instead.

As a Circle mage, she’s never much had the opportunity to develop a taste for much foreplay. She could give it a try now; Zevran would almost undoubtedly be all too happy to spend hours at her, especially if she mentioned that simple fact. Circle life wasn’t conducive to anything but rushed and secretive liaisons, and now would be as good a time as any to find out. Now might be the last time to find out, in fact.

Still, she doesn’t actually want to. His lips trail down, down, and she knows where he’s headed and why, but she just… _wants_. 

“I’d really rather we just get to it,” she says, tugging him back up by the hair. She wriggles out of her remaining undergarments and lets her legs fall open. Zevran’s face is openly appreciative while he rearranges himself between them.

He slips his fingers into his mouth before he touches her, which is thoughtful but unnecessary. “Oh, you _are_ ready for me,” he says, sliding his fingers tantalizingly through the wetness he finds there before taking them away to wrap his hands around hers, to guide them out of his hair and onto his hips. He presses his cock just there, just against her, and asks, “Show me?”

Wynne asks herself, _am I really the kind of woman who goes off for a last hurrah with a man young enough to be her son?_ She pulls Zevran into her, because apparently she is. It’s been so long, and she can’t help the sound of wonder she lets out in response. 

“ _Mmmm_ ,” he agrees. She might have expected him to look smug or lecherous, but there’s only pure enjoyment on his face as he cups her breasts reverently and gives her slow, measured pumps of his hips. It feels better than she remembered, better than coming back to life, to have a man above and inside her. 

Nonetheless, she says, “Aren’t you supposed to be good at this, young man?”

He sighs dreamily. “Your motherly scolding is certainly not making this any less of a realized fantasy for me, you see. But I promise if I go off too soon, I’ll make it up to you.”

“How about we just ensure you have nothing to make up for?” she asks, pinching the tip of his ear. 

It has, as she probably should have predicted, rather the opposite effect. He moans, strokes deepening. It feels amazing, but she lets go because she wants to make this last. She doesn’t intend to spend the whole night at this, but she needs more than a few minutes. 

Extraordinary problems require extraordinary solutions, and she has the magical expertise to create one. She pushes him away, out of her, and he goes obediently, his body fluid and receptive. It’s easy enough for a Harrowed mage to manipulate spells to her will; she uses the basic principles of Crushing Prison, modifies it into an elliptical ring of force that circles the base of his cock and snakes around his balls. He cries out more pleasurably than one might expect of a man having unknown magics cast about his sensitive bits, but it is as she has often said: he is perverse. 

Perhaps Wynne herself is not above perversion, though, because she enjoys it. “Do a good job and I shall release you,” she says. She doesn’t mean to use her instructing-the-apprentices voice, but Zevran seems undeterred by that slip.

He seems rather inspired by it, in fact. “Yes, ma’am,” he says with great satisfaction, pushing back inside her. His ability to make courteous words sound promising and suggestive is truly unrivaled. Perhaps the effect is enhanced by the smooth roll of his hips; she hasn’t had a man in years, and he seems to be a skilled one indeed.

“Oh, Wynne, you are magnificent,” he moans. “To be under your command, to feel your magic constrict me as your body envelops me!”

Zevran’s effusive singing of praises lands rather differently now. She has no remaining reasons to believe he’s making fun or being manipulative; he’s doing nothing more than giving her exactly what she asked for and taking great and grand pleasure in doing so. “Yes,” she gasps, grasping at his hips and ass to pull him in deeper.

He performs rather admirably, it must be said. Zevran takes her body’s hints about the changes of pace she might want, where she could use more attention. He’s smart enough to experiment with angles, and strong enough to lift her hips and slide a pillow under them to find the one that makes her nerves absolutely sing. His rhythm is steady and unwavering and she thinks, a bit ridiculously, that he must be an excellent dancer. When she starts to wind up, tightening with proximity to release, he takes those clever fingers to the task, rubbing her off while his hips work tirelessly. 

It’s been a while since she’s had an orgasm, and this is a long, luxurious one. It reverberates through her in waves, until she’s nothing but flesh and nerves. She loses concentration on her spell when she comes and Zevran fucks her all the way through it, dutiful and encouraging and apparently not having any need of magical assistance to keep control of himself.

Her surprise must show, because he grins, having slowed to a stop at, admittedly, the perfect time. “Oh, I am very studied in the art of delaying my own gratification. I merely wished to see what you would do with me if I neglected to mention it.”

Wynne chuckles. She feels too good to be anything but amused right now. “You’re always looking for trouble, aren’t you, Zevran?”

“Ah, what can I say? I knew you had tricks I’d never seen before and you have proven me correct in a most glorious fashion! Tell me, will you dismiss me now, or shall I continue to enjoy your exquisite body?”

It’s not like she felt decrepit before - this body has carried her through life, carried a child, and now it holds the spirit that saved her - but pretty words from a pretty man can be rather moving when spoken with honesty. And she has absolutely no indication that he is being anything but honest; he looks upon her naked body as lustily as any man ever did twenty or thirty years ago.

And if _she_ is being honest, Zevran is more handsome than any of the men she’s taken to bed in her time. His is a rough sort of beauty, scarred and a little too lean but no less striking for it, and there’s certainly no harm in enjoying him some more. 

“You may stay,” she grants.

“Wonderful! What would you have of me?”

And Wynne, who hasn’t taken anything for herself in a very long time, looks up at the beautiful young man still hard inside her, still gleefully ready for her demands, and says, “More.”

Despite staying with Wynne late into the night, Zevran is up early the next morning. He’s quite invigorated indeed, ready to greet the day and whatever surprises this one may bring. 

Today’s is Leliana, sitting at the same table they’d shared last night, dipping her bread in runny eggs with a knowing smile on her face. “Congratulations are in order, I suppose,” she offers, sounding amused. 

“Whatever do you mean?” he asks coyly. 

“I saw you leave with Wynne on your arm last night, you naughty thing.”

“It is true, I invited the lovely Wynne to dance with me to the excellent music you provided, but she declined and asked instead that I escort her to her room.” He has no reason to lie to Leliana when they both know he fucked her last night, but he thinks that Wynne would appreciate whatever discretion he can offer.

“Wynne is indeed a lovely woman,” she agrees, ignoring his very faint protest. “Still, I do wonder that even she has had you before I.”

“My dear bard,” Zevran says gravely, abandoning his pretense, “I assure you I meant no offense. I simply believed you had no interest!”

“So easily were you cured of your curiosity about what was beneath my Chantry robe when an older and wiser woman came along,” she teases in her most lamenting tones. 

“This is a misunderstanding very easily fixed,” he flirts. “Do you still have the robe?” 

Leliana laughs. 

* * *

She wears it the very next day, when they’re back on the move and trudging along the countryside once more.

She flirts with him most ruthlessly, but she believes Zevran both deserves and enjoys a good teasing. When their companions are otherwise occupied, she casts her eyes over his body admiringly, only to cut them away again the very moment before their friends become undistracted once more. She tells tales of her time in the Chantry with unending metaphors about having her mind and heart slowly stretched open by the firm, steady care and attention she received there, provokes him until he can’t resist replying. The Warden’s saving grace is that she’s leading the party and Wynne hasn’t noticed the light shaking of her shoulders that Leliana has. 

“One day you, too, will find yourself on your knees in need, opened wide to receive the Maker, Zevran,” Leliana says to him benevolently. “I will pray for such a blessing to befall you.”

Zevran, predictably, can no longer help himself. “I have been spread open to receive by many people, but never the Maker. Although I suppose He could have been watching.”

Wynne makes a sound of disgust and lectures Zevran about being inappropriate and a degenerate. It rings rather differently to Leliana, knowing that even Wynne hadn’t been able to resist his supposed degeneracy. 

She spends the whole day poking at him in these little ways, getting back at him for leaving her to wonder for so long. He’s mostly made up for it by that night, when she lets him slide his head under the hem of her robe to properly ask her forgiveness. He eats her out sweet and slow, doing his absolute best to make sure it was worth the wait.

“Oh, Zevran,” she praises, unable to help herself under the onslaught of the slow, opulent licks he gives and the blissful look on his face. “Aren’t you lovely?”

He makes her come a few times, gets a little rougher and a little sloppier each go around but she thinks that’s a technique rather than him becoming lazy; he seems to be very attuned to the way her body relaxes into pleasure, and trying his best to take her deeper.

And, yes, that’s very much where she wants to go. There’s a much easier way about it, so she pushes him slowly back and away, guides him down into the bedroll with a satin slipper pressed against his chest. 

The Chantry robe never comes off. She merely hikes it up to settle herself on top of him, around him. He makes the loveliest sound when he slides inside her, a music all its own.

“Perhaps next time you’ll wear the robe,” she suggests idly, rocking slowly to get used to the feel of him inside her. 

“Me, a brother?” he asks. “Yes, I rather like that. Chaste and pure until a bard, hardened by the world, steps into his life offering the heady promise of all the things he has missed while locked away from it.”

She laughs. “You’re rather debauched, my dear. I wonder at your ability to even pretend to be pure and chaste, though I would certainly love to see such a thing.”

“Oh, but I can,” he insists. “Shall I regale you with tales of the times I’ve crossed paths with lecherous guards?” He widens his eyes, sets a tiny tremble to his lip. “But ser, it’s so _big_. Are you sure it will fit?”

She sees him change before her, becoming unsure and inexperienced in a moment. It is indeed convincing. She can almost imagine herself as a guard, looming and covetous. “And did they like that?”

“Some of them, a certain kind. You get good at spotting which ones.” He is cheerfully cavalier about this.

“And did you?”

“Oh, yes. I found a certain joy in manipulating them this way, I admit. Better to be fucked than arrested, yes? I became very good at looking up at them from my knees with the right combination of fear and enjoyment. Would you like to see?”

It’s so fun and uncomplicated with Zevran, grinding into each other pleasurably while maintaining a very compelling conversation. It’s nothing at all like her experiences in Orlais, where she needed to always be mindful and wary of enjoying herself too much, of letting a personal weakness slip. She’s never had a friend like Zevran, someone she can just play with. It’s harmless to indulge her curiosity here, with him, and so it’s easy to say yes.

He bites his lip charmingly, as though he’s conflicted or nervous, and opens his mouth a little. She slides her fingers across his lips and wonders what it would be like to have a cock to put in there. He makes it look really good: hesitant half-starts where her fingertips press past his pouted lips and his tongue kisses them briefly before he backs off and looks up again with his eyelashes fanning, breathing short and nervous breaths. “Suck,” she demands in her best approximation of a demanding guard, done with this flirtation and ready to be inside Zevran’s mauve mouth.

He gags a little, even though she doesn’t put them in too far, and oh, he’s good. His eyes even tear up. He blinks and his lashes web together with the wetness as he gazes up at her, innocent and tentative. A shiver runs through Leliana; Zevran is a gifted performer. She presses in, just to see how far he can actually take it. Zevran, always quick, follows her lead. His jaw drops more and he opens his throat to accommodate the fingers she’s pushing deeper in, tongue working as they slip in further. 

His cock throbs inside her and she rolls her head back, unable to contain the moan that slips out from that, from how much he likes to be pushed and how hard their hips are grinding into each other. She pulls her fingers out, grabs his face with her spit-slick hand and kisses him. She can’t help but kiss him, can’t help but marvel at the beauty of this moment and see him as a manifestation of the divine. 

When Alistair had called his adorable truce with Morrigan over tea, Leliana had been both delighted to be present and also unsure of whether Alistair was joking when he called the time they’d both spent with Zevran a ‘unique gift from the Maker’. Though Leliana has been hardened by her experiences, she is inclined to think that’s exactly what this one is. It is with a deep, warm love in her heart for her friendship with Zevran, and appreciation for the blessings the Maker bestows, that she says, “You are so beautiful.”

“And still I pale before you. Kiss me again, lovely bard,” he suggests, and when she does his hand slides down from her hip to be of better use. “Can you come like this, or shall I make some more debauched innocent faces to ease your way?”

She laughs, and it’s a compounded pleasure; she’s never had the kind of sex where you could laugh before. It’s a different type of stimulation to add to all the others he’s giving her, and wonderful in its uniqueness. 

“Lovely though that boy is, I’d like to come with the real Zevran,” she gasps in jumps and starts.

“I know you desire her,” he says. The innocent flower blows away on the wind and his eyes smolder. “You can join us any time, you know. I could fuck you from behind while you finally find out what she tastes like.” 

If Zevran could discern salacious lusts off of guards moments after meeting them, she supposes it’s no surprise that he can sense what she wants when they spend so much time together. He paints a lovely picture and she cries out in response, to both the words and the way he’s touching her. When her thighs are burning and she’s overwhelmed with sensation and can’t muster the effort to keep riding him, Zevran takes her weight and keeps going, hips barely breaking their stride. She can’t help but be loud with the joy of her release. 

“I knew you would be musical,” Zevran says triumphantly.

She slaps him halfheartedly on the chest. “Hush, you, or I won’t let you come before I kick you out of here.” 

* * *

Zevran sits on the bank of a creek, washing linens. The sun is bright but barely able to take the chill out of the air. He longs for a little heat, entertains a fantasy of being able to bring his Warden back home to Antiva, to woo her amongst the canals and cobblestones. 

She has been gone for some days with Wynne, Sten, and Alistair, tying off loose ends. Things will be changing soon; the end is nigh. Zevran does what he always does: makes the most of the situation he’s in, but he feels an itch, a tug. His body feels the lack of her in secret ways. The space below his heart where she presses her hand when she spoons up behind him for sleep, bigger and stronger and holding him close. The curve where she hooks her chin to sweetly kiss his neck and say _goodnight, my love_.

It’s a very romantic sort of suffering, so he savors it as best he can. He does perhaps too good a job, as he is so distracted that he doesn’t immediately notice her return. She appears behind him as he hums to himself, wringing out clothes, and he doesn’t notice until she speaks. 

“I’ve missed you,” she says, and he tosses the shirt in his hand down onto the flat stone nearby, leaping to his feet to embrace her. 

“And I you,” he says, holding her as tightly as he is held. “But the Maker must smile upon me. I was toiling away and dreaming of you, and now here you are.”

She places her palm right there, beneath his sternum where his skin has been calling out for her, and kisses him. “We haven’t been able to really spend any time together for weeks,” she grumbles when she pulls away. “Marching back and forth across Ferelden and slaying darkspawn doesn’t count.”

“Perhaps not,” he agrees. “Sit with me here, and we will make the most of what moments of peace we do have.”

She takes off her boots and dips her toes into the water, sitting by his side. They catch up for a while - she has a great story about an ogre that ran into on their way back - but mostly what they’re doing is savoring the time together. 

“I have a confession for you, my dear Warden,” he says to her during a lull in their conversation, when he’s been basking in the beauty of her presence and the fierce loyalty he feels for this woman he was sent to kill, this woman who was supposed to kill him. 

“And what’s that?”

“I overheard you talking to Alistair, early one morning, some weeks ago.”

She’s a professional, too. “And what did you hear me say?”

“You said a great many things that were clever and true. You stripped me down to my barest parts and you described me most beautifully, as though I were a force of nature.”

“Well, that’s how I see you,” she says plainly.

“And I am humbled and heartened for it, I assure you. But there is something you said that was not true.”

“And what’s that?”

He takes a steadying breath, bracing for confession. “That I do not belong to you. I am perfectly happy with you keeping me on a long leash. I think you are happy this way too, or else you would not recommend me so highly to your friends. But it is important that you know: I am yours.” He takes off one of his earrings, more precious to him than anything he owns, and offers it to her.

With a smile, she accepts it. “You are the most valuable treasure I’ve found since leaving home, Zevran.” He sees love shining in her eyes. Already she knows him well enough not to say it outright, not yet. “It would be terribly greedy not to be willing to share my bounty.”

Zevran’s heart sings in his chest. “Now, how shall I properly demonstrate the depth of my gratitude for the encouragement you gave to our friend?”

“How about you show me that you missed me, and that I’m still the Warden you like best? And maybe we’ll talk about what we’re going to do when Alistair is ready for the both of us.”

He laughs, overjoyed by this woman, by the otherworldly luck that befell him when he agreed to try to kill her. “Ah, now that would be a fitting tribute for a king, would it not? I do believe someone else already is, though.”

She gasps, climbing into his lap excitedly. “Leliana?!”

“Oh, we had such fun, laughing and playing! Sometimes it’s nice to fuck someone who likes you _before_ you give them an orgasm.”

“I liked you before you gave me any orgasms!” She insists, then pauses thoughtfully. “Though, admittedly, I did like you _more_ after the orgasms.”

“Then what do you say, shall I see how much more I can make you like me tonight?”

“Yes,” she exhales, beginning to remove her armor and kick it away into a lumpy pile. “I want you to eat me out until I’m shaking.”

“As you like,” Zevran says, heart brimming with love as he gets down on his knees.

* * *


End file.
